Someone Who'll Get It
by wanderinggypsyfeet
Summary: The night the Blackwater burned, Sansa bowed her head and prayed to her mother's gods for relief. It was funny how the gods, who never seemed to hear her before, heard her that night. One-shot, very slight SanSan, from the song by Highasakite.


**AN:** Seriously guys, I cannot stop writing this stupid couple. If you want to enhance your reading experience, listen to Someone Who'll Get It, by Highasakite. I heard this song and was honestly blown back at how perfect it is for them in Kings Landing.

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She practically flew to her room, light on her feet. She remembered thinking when she first arrived, she'd never know the Red Keep. She'd never know it's hallways and stairs, it's maze of rooms and corridors. And yet now, she knew it well. Like a cage she'd mapped, during all of her wanderings. She was to her chambers in short order, and she bolted the door.

Once she was secure inside, she looked around in vague surprise. She'd made it. She'd made it, how? No one had stopped her on her flight, no one had sent her back to Cersei and the wailing women, or worse, to the mob that surely raged outside. She tried to breathe, to calm her nerves, but here with no one to rely on her strength, she felt it ebb away.

She paused, holding tight to her vanity to give her shaking hands something solid to hold onto. Her thoughts were racing, from the flight and what Cersei had said to her. She wanted to believe it would be alright. She wanted to believe that goodness would prevail. But her time in Kings Landing had broken something in her, something she didn't even know they could break. They'd taken away her ability to hope, and she was left to panic and fear.

What would her lady mother do? She tried to think of that. Surely she'd be proud of Sansa's actions, of calming the women by singing. That's what her mother would've done, back in Winterfell. Kept people calm. Kept them safe. Gave them hope, instead of tearing it away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the doll and something flickered. The doll her father gave her, what felt like ages ago. She'd been a spoiled brat then, thinking herself too good for such things. She regretted it, bitterly, now. She should've thanked him profusely, and promised to cherish it all her days. But she hadn't.

She walked over and picked it up, looking down at it with sadness. The girl that had received this doll would've believed that good was going to win, that Stannis would come and liberate the city. That he'd sweep her away, back to her family, and she would live in Winterfell with her family, safe and sound once more. But Sansa wasn't that girl anymore.

What would mother do, if she were all alone, and scared? Sansa tried to think like her mother. If she had no one who needed her strength or comfort, if she were alone with her fears in darkness during the midst of a battle, what would she do?

Pray, Sansa realized. Her mother would've prayed and found comfort in prayer. Sansa clutched her doll, bent her head, and tried to do as her lady mother would've done.

 _Dear Father,_ she began, because one always began with the Father, _please send somebody to me alive, send somebody vital. Send someone not likely to die, send someone who's vital. Send a fighter._

It was a risky prayer, she knew. She knew what men did in battle, when their blood was up. She knew how dangerous it would be, asking for a fighter. But she also wanted to survive this, and a fool would not save her from the horrors both inside the keep and out. They would not keep her safe on the journey home. She needed such a man, no matter the risk.

 _Dear Smith, please send somebody to me tonight, send somebody bolder. Send someone not likely to break, send someone who's older. Send a soldier._

She was going to need strong arms round her, she knew it. The knights of her old dreams and songs would not be enough. They would not save her with songs and flowers, nor would their good looks and manners keep her safe. She knew better now. She was smarter now.

She thought to herself, as she tried to focus and pray, there was no more every day. Tonight was all and then it was over. She may die tonight, and so she bent her head back to her prayers.

 _Dear Warrior, send somebody out of his mind, send a goddamn leader. Send someone not psycho polite, send some goddamn freedom. Someone breathing._

 _Someone who'll get it_.

The prayer was harsh and desperate, but she didn't worry about judgment from the gods. Surely they didn't mind such language, not when it came at such bleak times. They were male, and they didn't carry for pretty languages, chirping courtesies. Sansa needed them to understand just how much she needed this. Needed them to send someone to her, to save her.

She finished her prayers, and didn't intone for the mother, maiden, or crone. They didn't hear such prayers, not during the midst of the battle. Women never won battles. They only lost them, lost husbands and brothers and sons and more, when their men lost. Sansa had no desire to call on them. She intoned the Father, Smith, and Warrior, just once more.

 _Send someone who'll get it._

"The ladies starting to panic?"

With a gasp, she whirled around to face none other than Sandor Clegane.

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 **AN:** I promise I am going to stop writing one-shots and actually focus on the two long form fics I've got going, I just cannot stop hearing and seeing this couple in every day life. (So obsessed.) Reviews feed my addiction, folks!


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